"I don't know what to say, for I am always terribly stupid at first; I can never make advances to a woman in the street. I follow them, go round and round them, and quite closely to them, but I never know what to say at first. I only once tried to enter into conversation with a woman in that way. As I clearly saw that she was waiting for me to make overtures, and as I felt bound to say something, I stammered out, 'I hope you are quite well, madam?' She laughed in my face, and I made my escape." I promised Paul to do all I could to bring about a conversation, and when we had taken our places again, I politely asked our neighbor: "Have you any objection to the smell of tobacco, madam?" She merely replied, "_Non capisco_."[6] So she was Italian! I felt an absurd inclination to laugh. As Paul did not understand a word of that language, I was obliged to act as his interpreter, so I said in Italian: "I asked you, madam, whether you had any objection to tobacco smoke?" With an angry look she replied, "_Che mi fa_."[7] She had neither turned her head nor looked at me, and I really did not know whether to take this "What does it matter to me" for an authorization, a refusal, a real sign of indifference, or for a mere "Leave me alone." "Madame," I replied, "if you mind the smell of tobacco in the least--" She again said, "_Mica_,"[8] in a tone of voice which seemed to mean, "I wish to goodness you would leave me alone!" It was, however, a kind of permission, so I said to Paul: "You can smoke." He looked at me in that curious sort of way that people have when they try to understand others who are talking in a strange language before them, and asked me: "What did you say to her?" "I asked if we might smoke, and she said we might do whatever we liked." Whereupon I lighted my cigar. "Did she not say anything more?" "If you had counted her words you would have noticed that she used exactly six, two of which gave me to understand that she knew no French, so four remained, and a lot can be said in four words." Paul seemed quite unhappy, disappointed, and "at sea," so to speak. But suddenly the Italian asked me, in that tone of discontent which seemed habitual to her, "Do you know at what time we shall get to Genoa?" "At eleven o'clock," I replied. Then after a moment I went on: "My friend and I are also going to Genoa, and if we can be of any service to you, we shall be very happy, as you are quite alone." But she interrupted with such a "_Mica_" that I did not venture on another word. "What did she say?" Paul asked. "She said that she thought you were charming." But he was in no humor for joking, and begged me, dryly, not to make fun of him, so I translated her question and my polite offer, which had been so rudely rejected. Then he really became as agitated as a squirrel in a cage.